


Predestination

by thepaper



Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-03-02
Updated: 2016-03-02
Packaged: 2018-05-24 09:25:57
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,107
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6149011
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thepaper/pseuds/thepaper
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Modern AU in which Jean, a Fine Arts student meets history major, Marco. For some reason, the moment he crossed path with the brown eyed, speckled skin boy, he felt a certain tug that he had felt sometime in many times past.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Predestination

**Author's Note:**

> The plotline for Predestination was originally meant for my now defunct fic: The Nearness of You. But after dissecting and reviewing the story I realized I made many grave mistakes that would lead to many plot holes and potentially awkward arcs; considering the breadth of the plot. Trying to insert it in one blow would ultimately result to a murky end. And I wouldn’t want that. So I decided to scrap the whole idea and began with this new one. Still, I appreciate the support from everyone and hope you guys enjoy this one just as well. Because I just love the Jean/Marco fandom and I refuse to get over Marco’s death akfhsaldneuhfd— 
> 
> Of course, as always, comments are appreciated, and let me know for any grammatical error because I really suck at editing.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jean arrives from the airport from France and has a little chitchat with his father.

“ _Father’s be kind to your children!_  
_You know it matters what you tell them_  
_Gotta feel for them!_  
_Well go ahead and steal for them!”_  
\- Fathers Be Kind, Ivan  & Alyosha

* * *

 

The first time I saw Trost, I knew I wasn’t in France anymore. 

Wrapped in skeins of fog and a long mountain range, from the airplane window, it looked like a cover of some _Nordic_ magazine. Square buildings in neat cut rows, neater parks with trees wide, green, and imposing. It was the perfect melding of some world of lost gods and talismans and the poetic geometry of the new age.

I say geometry, because symmetry plays a great part in the city’s aesthetics. Here, there are no spires or curved arches; no queer statuette or commemorative engraving of sort. Everything is clean, crisp, and preferably monochromatic; much like its people (with their bikes and their organic teas, coffees, and other natural home grown exports.) Here it is not unusual to see two or three buildings from different streets that look exactly alike, and 7 out of 10 houses are glass houses. And everywhere you go, there’s always a new building under construction; with probably a twin building in another part of the city.

Definitely not Bordeaux.

Definitely not France.

I arrived at the airport before noon and looked for my dad, who by then was already at the waiting area. At the height of 6 ft. flat he was an immediate standout, I had no trouble seeing his long face and ash blonde hair. He had a long brown coat, which exaggerated his height, and looked at me with his usual flat expression (and what seemed to be a sorry attempt of a smile) as I made my way to him.

“I trust your flight went well?” he said taking two of my bags.

“I guess.”   

“In the mood for anything?” he said, “We could grab lunch first before going to the university.”

“Not really. I just… want to get this over with,” I told him in French.

 “Please, Jean, in English.”

I replied in English.

“You sure you don’t want to spend the night at my place? We could drive early tom—” 

“Dad. I said let’s go.”

He didn’t say anything else after that.

* * *

 

My dad and I never had the ideal father-son relationship. 

It all started when I was five and he decided to leave France for work. Not that we needed the money, because mum’s parents were by no means poor. But dad was one of those self-made man; the son of a German immigrant and of strict noble principles, and couldn’t take the idea of having to live under the mercy of my grandparents.

Before they met each other dad was a neurophysician and mum, by then, was a famous opera singer. They met during one of her world tours. Dad was a typical man of science who had no artistic bone in his body. How he managed to woo her, I have no idea. Where she was liberal and capricious, he was strict and officious. It was one of those odd matches that resulted to a whirlwind romance, and a string of stupid decisions. Dad quit his job and moved to France to be with mum, who by then had decided to take a time off the limelight to focus on their budding relationship. In no time the two got married.

A year later, I was born.

The honeymoon phase was of course, short lived. Soon, mum went back to work, and dad tried to find a new one. But despite his efforts, being new to France and barely speaking the language, he failed.

Adding to their troubles, mum’s busy schedule took its toll and she suffered permanent vocal cord damage; and while she could still sing the possibility of a further singing career was over.

With my dad jobless and mum’s career finished, they decided it would be smart to move in with my grandparents. A decision dad didn’t take in stride.

Hope came in the form of an offer from my dad’s former employer when they offered him his old job back— twice the salary. While this meant he’d finally be able to provide for the family, it also meant moving back to Trost. Taking me with him was out of the question and I couldn’t be anywhere then without my mum.

After a long discussion, they decided it would be best if I stayed in France together with my mum and my grandparents. But it would be dad who would pay for my education. A stipulation he insisted.

And with that he left.

Despite this, I had a great childhood, if I must say. I grew up in Bordeaux and like I said, my mother’s side of the family were by no means poor. It was one of those old families bound and made unique with its distinctive pedigree, and instead of earning your money, you inherit it.

We lived in an old hamlet that was built by grandpere’s great-great grandfather many years ago; right next to an old Norman church overgrown with ivy. It was a great place, our house. Days and nights would be spent at my grandfather’s workshop; who was mentor to many of France’s modern artist, or playing the Piano with my grandmother; who was a revered vocal coach back at _Conservatoire de Paris_. Not to mention my celebrity of a mother. I was the art kid from the rich art family. I guess what I’m trying to say here is life was happy despite not having my dad around. It’s not that hard to see why eventually I was able to establish a life removed of his memory.

But I wouldn’t say I was mad at him. After all, he had his reasons. It was more of a case of having outgrown him. In the earlier years following his leave, dad tried his best to maintain a consistent presence in my life, which worked for a while. But years passed and the visits eventually became less, birthdays, Christmas, and other family celebrations would be spent with one chair empty at the dining table. Until finally his absence became a routine. By then, I was already a teenager and I could care less if he came knocking on our door in flames or with open arms.

It would take a long time before I’d see him again.

That day came when my grandfather died.

Dad arrived the night before the burial and mum casually announced over dinner I would be moving with him for college. A dying wish of sort from _grandpere_ , or so they say. I remember shouting and plates being smashed. It was a lovely reunion.

Two months later, I’m in his car on my way to Trost University.

* * *

 

Trost University used to be an old small city, turned military base, famous for its fortified walls which enclosed the once impenetrable stronghold. But heavy airstrike during the Second World War caused major and irreparable damage to the city and now only a portion of its fabled walls survived. After the war, many of the citizens decided to relocate to a bigger and more stable land (to what is now Trost City) and the old Trost later on became Trost University (TU). Since then, TU has become one of the best and most reputable academic institutions in the country. 

Or at least that’s what the guide said.

The drive from the airport to Trost Uni had been a long one. We’ve been on the road for a good hour and a half now, and have been out of the city for a while. And I swear to god I can’t take another minute with my dad, who for the past hour suddenly became Trost’s ambassador of tourism.

“This spot used to be…” 

“That road used to have…”

“The man driving the car we just passed through…” 

“Did you know—”

As much as I didn’t want to, I had to put a stop to this madness.

“Dad! I get it! Trost is one helluvan interesting place. Now could we please, I don’t know… talk about something else?” I said with more impudence than I intended. Thankfully dad wasn’t that big on social cues, and he just took the comment at face value.

“I’m sorry, Little Prince. But I really I think you’re going to like Trost,” dad said in one of his further awkward attempts for conversation.

I would’ve responded with my usual irony, but at this point of the trip I’ve basically given-up and just gave him a respectful nod.

“Did you know that your grandpere used to teach in Trost,”

This however, caught my attention.

“He did?”

“For a year, actually. I didn’t have much money then and I was paying my way through final year in medical school on my own. So every now and then I’d take extra jobs in the university cleaning the rooms or delivering arts supplies in the evening. I remember seeing him every night because he’d usually stay late to check on student’s works. One night he called me to help him carry a large bust and that’s how we became close. Sometimes, when our schedules permit us he’d teach me basic drawing because you know me, I didn’t know a thing about art…”

Obviously.

“We’d share stories. I told him about my life, how I was a working student, or how your grandparents moved here during the Second World War. I was little scared at first because I thought he’d find my stories boring. But he didn’t. He was very encouraging and gave very good and sound advices I still carry to this day. Then one night, your mother came to visit—" 

“Why are you telling me this?”

_Well that came out of nowhere._

For some reason, him talking about mom tipped something in my head off. Dad looked at me with that trite expression he always wore, which irritated the hell out of me. As if he was saying, “I’m still your father, you know?”

“Look, Jean. I know this is not your most ideal of situation—”

“Obviously.”

He looked at me again, this time he wore a hurt expression. I knew then I’ve gone a step too far.

I bowed my head, and despite myself, muttered a quiet apology.

“I know this is not your ideal situation. But I didn’t make this decision on my own, you know. Perhaps your grandpere had his own reasons why he insisted you study at Trost. You don’t have to love every minute of it but at least try to keep an open mind.”

I didn’t even bother answering him this time.

“I think this has more to do with you than us.”

“What do you mean?”

Suddenly it was quiet between us and remained that way for a while. We passed through a forked road, before turning right. There weren’t that many cars with us. I suppose there wouldn’t any until later or probably tomorrow. I tried to keep my attention someplace else by trailing my eyes on the road or the endless trail of giant trees around us. It would take a few more minutes before any of us would speak again

“I don’t know, Jean,” dad began, “But your grandpere had always spoken fondly of Trost and even wanted to visit this year if it wasn’t for his failing health… Like I said, it’s not France, but it has its own charm. Right? I think… I think he saw that too and wanted you to experience it yourself. So have fun, yeah?”

I didn’t answer him.

“Also… if in case you have any problems— anything. You know my number.”

I didn’t answer that, either.

“You may not see me as your father, Jean. But I will always see you as my son.”

For some reason those words got through me: _You may not see me as your father…_

I’ve thought about them a hundred times in my head. It was one of those thoughts that were easier to admit in the abstract than in actual words. But hearing them from someone else, from that person himself, made me feel I was salt of the earth.

I wanted to say something. I should have said something. Deny the allegation. Tell him to stop being crazy, or I’ve never thought of it once, or something like that.

But I didn’t.

Because even if I did, something from the look in his eyes told me deep down he knew, as if saying.

_There’s no need for lies._

“Dad, I…”

But again the words failed me.

Nothing followed.

* * *

 

**Author's Note:**

> Again, thank you for reading this! Let me know what you think. I'll try to update as soon as I can. ❤️❤️❤️


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